


Is This Thing On?

by donovanpsn



Category: Adventure Time, Descendants (2015), Kingdom Hearts, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Drug Abuse, F/F, F/M, I still can't tag lmao sorrry, I'm so sorry for bringing this into your world, M/M, Rape, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, This is a monster, forced child prostitution, hybrid drug, it's mostly just complete jaylos trash tbh, just like me, pilfering, the other ships are just minor canon in this story ftmp, unless i change my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:49:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5872744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donovanpsn/pseuds/donovanpsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Allow me to apologize in advance for the possible emotional damage this fic will cause. Maybe it's just because I wrote it, but it was pretty gut wrenching for me. Enjoy <3</p>
<p>(Chapter and Series titles from P!nk songs! You should really listen to them while you read!)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Is This Thing On?

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me to apologize in advance for the possible emotional damage this fic will cause. Maybe it's just because I wrote it, but it was pretty gut wrenching for me. Enjoy <3
> 
> (Chapter and Series titles from P!nk songs! You should really listen to them while you read!)

Carlos fidgeted. He trembled. He shook. He rolled over on his lumpy excuse for a mattress and stared off into the vast expanse of his mother’s coat collection, his wide brown eyes hollow and unfocused. He needed another round.

He groaned, rolling onto his back to stare up at the cracked ceiling. “It’s too early.” He whimpered, feeling out of breath from fighting his desperate internal battle. “I can’t take it now. It’s  _ too early _ .” he gasped, his lungs burning in his chest.

    He twitched, his fingers tightening and untightening around the thick comforter he had gotten from Evie. His body was hurting everywhere. He felt like he was on fire; burning from the inside out. His eyes filled with water that spilled down his cheeks, as if his body were trying to extinguish his internal flame. If only it was a successful effort.

    He huffed once, sitting up against the wall his thin mattress was pushed against, and swiped under his eyes, ridding himself of his desperate tears. “Fuck.” He choked, his old tears replaced by hundreds more and soon, he was sobbing quietly, his face buried into the pillow Evie had given him.

     Every night, the same thing happens. It starts as an itch, at first. A burning desire tearing through his entire being. But then, it changes. It gains power and it gets bigger and bigger until it's choking him; suffocating him. He feels like the walls are closing in on him. 

    He clutched the pillow closer to his face as his pained sobs grew in volume. He could  _ not  _ let Cruella hear him. If she found out… He would be seen as even weaker as he already is. Weaker, even, than his “pathetic father”. He wished it weren’t true. He wished, every night, for the strength to just close his eyes and  _ sleep _ . 

     He knew he would give in. He doesn't even know why he tries to fight it, anymore. He  _ always  _ gives in. Always. 

     Taking a deep, steadying breath, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to swallow his tears, and crawled away from his “room” pathetically. He pushed a rack of Cruella’s cheaper coats- “ _ Rabbit fur, Carlos! Expensive, but not nearly lush enough!”- _ out of his way, revealing a small door that led to an even smaller bathroom. Cruella, at least, saw the importance in giving her live-in slave a place to shower and defecate. 

    He used the edge of the toilet to heave himself up, his hands braced against the dirty, stained porcelain so that he wouldn't topple over. He turned, bumping at least four different things in the incredibly tiny room. “Oh, god.” He whispered quietly, his eyes finally landing on the opaque orange bottle that sat on a low, dilapidated shelf in the corner. 

    “God, forgive me.” He whispered quietly, clenching his jaw as he scrambled to uncap the bottle. When he successfully twisted the lid off- it’s going to be a bitch to find it later- he tipped it over, shaking three small pills into his hand. He stared at them for a moment, observing the way they reflected light off of their lustrous surfaces seductively. Without thinking twice, he threw them back, swallowing them with the liquid that had accumulated in his mouth as a response to seeing his life savers so close. 

    Being a boy genius, he had managed to create the most functional drug to ever exist. For his personal situation, at least. A hybrid of Adderall, Darvocet, and Xanax that he could take to survive his daily life on the Isle and with his  _ mother _ . Originally, he started taking Adderall when his mother threw the bottle at him, telling him to take it to help him complete all of the chores she lays out for him faster, but eventually, he needed more. He had started taking Darvocet to kill his nervous system. To help him handle the abuse he receives from his mother and his peers. Still, it wasn't enough. He needed  _ more _ . That’s when he discovered Xanax. Finally, he could rid himself of the crippling anxiety that chokes him alive every time he inhales.

    It was perfect. The trio of drugs made him invincible. He couldn't feel the physical pain that he was dealt every day. He always completed his chores. He cut his anxiety attacks down by more than fifty percent. Unfortunately, he started to feel the negative side effects of using three different drugs so freely. He lost time. He had random dizzy spells. He said things he doesn't remember. So, he perfected his super-drug. He formulated a bonding agent and funneled the effects of the three drugs into one, raising their productivity but lowering the power of their side effects. Advonax, he calls it. His savior. It was like a dream. 

    He wouldn't call himself addicted, but just about anyone else in existence would. Even those vile, wicked, malicious, malevolent souls that haunt the Isle would see his gross dependence on the super-drug. Anyone could pick out the dark bruises under his eyes from the lack of sleep and the dead shadows in his eyes from not being able to feel. But still, he refused to believe that the drugs were slowly murdering him. 

    He swallows again, his saliva trickling down his throat like acid. He felt like he had just swallowed a handful of nails, but it would all be okay, soon. Very soon. 

 

    He hadn't gotten any sleep. He can't count the days he's been awake or the nights he couldn't sleep. His precious addiction keeps him awake. He doesn't remember the last time he closed his eyes for longer than a few minutes. Busy busy busy busy busy. He has to keep busy. 

    Even now, he was fidgeting in his seat, always moving; his eyes never stayed on one thing for long. His notes were sporadic and disorderly but still somehow perfectly neat and understandable. His hand shook when he wasn't writing. He could never keep still. He was oblivious to the worried glances from his classmates that were buried under spiteful glares. On the Isle, hatred is the first and only rule. They can't be openly sympathetic, no matter how worse for wear their poor victim looked. Even the vile Lady Tremaine had to stifle her concern for one of her star pupils. He was very obviously deteriorating, but no one ever said anything. Not even his closest, only friends. 

    He jumped when the bell rang, his pen flying out from his grasp and rolling across the floor, into the heel of Anthony Tremaine’s leather boot. He scrambled to stuff his things in his raggedy black and white back, his shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly as he did. He darted to his pen, bending to pick it up and crashing into the young Lord when he tried to pick it up, as well. They went sprawling, a heap of tangled limbs on the floor of Anthony’s grandmother’s classroom. Lady Tremaine watched them curiously from the corner of her eye. 

    “Carlos.” Anthony greeted, lifting his head up off the tiled floor to meet the smaller boy’s eyes. “Fancy meeting you here.” He teased, one perfect eyebrow raised ever so elegantly. 

    “A-Anthony.” Carlos stammered, blushing red up to his dark roots. “I'm sorry!” He gasped, hurrying to his feet and outstretching a hand to help Anthony up as well. Only after they were both standing did he remember himself. “Oh, wait, fuck. No I'm not. I'm not sorry. I pushed you down on purpose.” He insisted, trying to lie through his teeth and failing miserably. Villains  _ never _ apologize for causing pain. 

    Anthony chuckled, dusting off his clothes that were just as ratty as the rest but seemed so much more,  _ more.  _ Everything about Anthony  is  _ more.  _ It makes Carlos breathless to think about. “It’s alright, Carlos. You know I'm not like the rest. I'm a Lord, not a villain.” He smirked slyly, his already slanted eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. One might say,  _ flirtatiously.  _

    But, Carlos is not “one”. He is nothing. That's what he grew up hearing and that's what he was taught to believe. So, instead of coming back with something just as flirty, he stammered softly and nodded, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. “I… I know.” He mumbled. 

    “Why don't I help you out, here.” Anthony offered kindly, reaching out to take Carlos’ bag from his sweaty hands. He flashed the younger a boyishly charming grin, sweeping his deep mahogany hair back with an elegant toss of his head. Everything about him screamed nobility.

    He offered Carlos his leather clad arm, and the freckled fiend’s eyes widened. “A-Are you sure? People might assume…” He mumbled meekly, his eyebrows pinched together worriedly. He didn't want to risk another beating, drugged and numb or not. 

    Anthony shrugged, a careless glint in his gleaming eyes. “Who cares?” He shrugged, offering his arm once more. 

    Carlos nodded slowly, hesitantly reaching out to curl his thin fingers around Anthony's bicep. “Yeah, okay.” He mumbled, more confident now than a few moments ago. If anything, Jay would protect him. Jay always protects him. 

    He followed Anthony out of the room, oblivious to Lady Tremaine’s satisfied smirk. “Good. That little hoodlum of a de Vil won't kill himself just yet, with my boy looking after him.”

  
  


    Carlos followed Anthony through their school halls aimlessly, letting the young Lord guide him through the mass of students. He ignored the lewd remarks and the mean spirited cat calls. “At least I'm not alone.” He would think to himself every time someone whispered about him to their friends as they passed by. 

    Soon, they were at Carlos’ locker and Anthony was dutifully holding his things as he opened the metal door. “Anthony, you really don't have to do all this.” He insisted, unable to hide the delight that seeped through into his voice. 

    “Consider me at your service, m’lady.” He teased; he is definitely flirting now, and Carlos doesn't know how to respond. No one had ever shown any romantic interest in him. The closest he gets on the Isle is a sexual comment or a slap on the ass as he walks past. He can't flirt. 

    Luckily, he didn't have to worry about coming back with something sweet, as Evie’s voice cut through the throng of students bustling around the pair. 

    “And with that, I must bid you adieu.” Anthony chuckled, giving Carlos a low bow and a subtle wink before handing him his bag and slipping off into the crowd. 

    “Is he seriously still scared of me? I literally only threatened to feed him a poisoned Apple, like, once.” Evie huffed, pushing through a small group of first years maliciously. 

    “I’m pretty sure he just does it for fun, now. Like a game of keepaway, with him as the ball.” Carlos mumbled, switching out his Evil Schemes notebook for his Advanced Vanities supply bag. Supplies meaning mirrors, hair products, and various types of makeup. Being Cruella de Vil’s son, he had been raised to cover his insecurities and imperfections with fashion and glamor. A less rigorous lesson than what EQ had enforced on Evie, for sure. 

    “What were you even talking to him about, anyways? Since when do you and people like him cross paths, like, ever?” Evie inquired, pulling out her own mirror to check her pretty V-braid. She couldn't show up to their Advanced Vanities class looking like trash. Ursula would have a meltdown.  _ “Body language! It’s important, but ineffective if you look like shit!”  _ she would scream. Her shrill lectures are almost as insufferable as Yzma’s.

    Carlos frowned, rubbing his eye absently, “You mean  _ popular _ people?” He snapped, more out of reflex than genuine malice. He would have taken it back if Evie hadn't responded with a mildly irritated scoff and eye roll. 

    “Don’t be bitchy.” She snapped back, dropping her mirror into her purse with a clatter. “I  _ mean,  _ snobby rich boy. Well, rich by the Isle’s standards.” Evie explained, tossing aside their minor argument so quickly it gave Carlos whiplash. 

    “I don't know. He offered to carry my things and wouldn't take no for an answer.” Carlos sighed, shouldering his bag after he emptied out the textbooks for the classes he already attended that morning. He linked arms with Evie, the two of them walking through the crowds of underclassmen that parted around them like the Red Sea. Or Jafar’s bald spots. 

They made their way through the dusty hallways of Dragon Hall, kicking aside stray rats that crossed their paths and tripping equally ratty first years that looked at them for too long. Just because his classmates pick on him doesn't mean Carlos can’t be mean when he feels like it. 

    “You were flirting.” Evie observed, feigning nonchalance, even as she watched her best friend from the corner of her eye curiously. 

    Carlos gasped, the blush that had only just been cooling down returning with vengeance. “I was not!” He defended, his voice rising several octaves higher than usual. He craned his neck, avoiding Evie’s gaze when he tacked on a quiet, “ _ He  _ was flirting with  _ me. I  _ can't flirt to save my life.” He grumbled, a soft pout curling his plump pink lips just so. 

    “Lovely.” Evie replied absently, mentally stabbing herself in the chest-  _ repeatedly _ \- because Jay is  _ not  _ going to like this. 

  
  


    Oh god. She was right. 

    “He was  _ what _ ?” Jay snarled, his chocolate brown eyes boiling with fury as he stomped around Evie’s bedroom. She had sent a vulture to call him and Mal to her house after school so she could talk to them about the Carlos and Anthony situation, but she hadn't thought to prepare her poor carpet before his arrival. The poor thing. Jay had probably stomped all the fluff out of it forever. 

    “Anthony was flirting with-”

    “I  _ heard  _ you the first time. God, I'm gonna kill him. How  _ dare  _ he-”

    “Jay. Shut up.” Mal snapped, her eyes narrowed into a challenging glare as she watched her best friend huff and puff all around Evie’s room. “You can't get all upset like you  _ own  _ Carlos. You aren't even  _ dating  _ Carlos. He has no idea you even like boys, for God’s sake. Maybe if you get your head out of your  _ ass  _ for a few seconds, you would piece together that you could literally ask him out whenever you feel like it and he would say yes in a heartbeat.”

    “I  _ know  _ he would say yes, Mal, but you know why I won't date him.” He snarled, his jaw clenched so tightly that the grinding of his teeth was almost audible. 

    “Saying you're scared of hurting him and don't want to be tied down isn't a reason, Jay, it's an excuse.” Evie pointed out calmly from her perch in front of her vanity.  _ “Blush for the cheeks, bronzer for the bone! Invisible pores mean happy skin! Beauty is most important!”  _ She could almost hear her mother badgering her every time she pulled looked into a mirror. It's unnerving. 

    “I just- I- God! Fuck this shit. I'm gonna go beat up some loser first year or something.” He growled, kicking his ratty school bag up so he could catch it mid-air rather than having to bend over to pick it up like a normal person. 

    He stomped out of the castle, shouting a “bad-bye” to Evil Queen as a thanks for her hospitality, or whatever. 

    Evie flinched softly at the sound of her front door slamming shut, shaking her head a bit, mournfully. “I don't see what his problem is.” She huffed, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. 

    Mal shrugged, flopping back onto the thick, comfortable bed like a bag of bones. “He’s got millions of problems. One for every gold coin Jafar expects him to supply.” She sighed, rolling over onto her stomach so she could watch Evie apply a new layer of makeup over the older one. It’s like watching a rooster lay an egg. It's fascinating and kind of scary at the same time. Everything Mal appreciated in one practice. “He just needs to figure things out for himself, honestly. We can’t help him with everything in life. Let him figure it out for himself. If he's gonna be a baby about Anthony courting Carlos or whatever it is those idiot nobles do, it's whatever. Just fuck it all.” Mal advised carelessly. Her personal motto. “Just fuck it all.”

  
  


    If anyone should take that motto to heart, it would be Carlos. His interaction with Anthony earlier that day had thrown him so far off his axis that he didn't even know where he stood, anymore. Not that he ever did. Not really. 

    He had been so distracted for the rest of the day that his precious drug hadn't even been able to provide the extra boost in productivity he needed to get his chores done before Cruella got home. He was still nursing the fresh bruises. 

    He laid on his lumpy mattress, shivering slightly from the intense draft and the side effect from one- or is it two? Maybe three?- of the three drugs he was high off of. He could feel the pain, again. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it even a little. The pain- inflicted by his own  _ mother _ . It makes his skin crawl. He feels so dirty when he thinks about it. Useless. So pathetic that not even the woman that brought him into the world could bring herself to care about him. 

    He could feel it. The ache in his thighs and his wrists. He needed a different pain, to balance everything out. He needed to make it all okay again. He kind of wishes he had used a stronger dose of Darvocet in his drug. Maybe then, he would never feel anything. He could be just as dead inside as everyone else on this wretched island. Cold as his mother. Maybe then he wouldn't be such a sore disappointment. 

    He rolled over. He rolled back. And laid flat on his back. He flopped onto his stomach. Nothing was working, and the ache was getting stronger. He felt like the skin on his body was already splitting. Cutting itself, prematurely. 

    He shoved his hand under the thin mattress, groping until his thin fingers curled around a small, silver blade. He pulled it out, watching it reverently. He hates this. 

    Weakness. God, everything about him is just so  _ weak.  _ He's always been such a  _ runt.  _ And on the Isle of the Lost, of all places. The one place on the whole world where weakness is punishable by pain. 

    But it's okay. He has blade and his drug. His most prized possessions. The only objects he actually gives a fuck about, on this cursed island. His relief. They make his life bearable. They take his pain away. They give him control. Euphoria. 

    He took it delicately between only slightly trembling fingers, his face pinched with focus as he guided the winking silver to his wrist. He titled the edge inward, pressing it into his skin ever so slightly. He had to have just the right amount of pressure. If the cut is too deep, he raises the risk of infection. However, if it's too shallow, he’d be aching for more. It had to be  _ perfect _ .

    Slowly-  _ slowly- _ he dragged the thin metal across the pale plane of his wrist, marring it straight through the middle with more and more discolored lines. They started white, but soon shifted to pink, and finally, red. He sucked air through his teeth, relishing in the balance he achieved by hurting himself. Already, he could feel his whole world coming into focus. 

    He slept for the whole night, for the first time in what could've been days, weeks, or months. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos! The second chapter is being written as we speak (it's probably almost half way through), so if you guys would be interested in reading more of this story, just say so! Feedback always makes a writer happy <3


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